The Demon She Stripped Down to Nothing
by TortiQuercu
Summary: Clint surprises Natasha by coming through on an old promise. A little fluffy one-shot follow-up to my multi-chapter story, The Demon They Threw to the Wolves. Clintasha, written for BettyBackInTheDay.


**A/N: This is set on New Year's Eve. Yes, I started writing it ON New Year's Eve. I apologize that it took me this long to wrap it up! This short fic goes all the way for BettyBackInTheDay. ^_^**

* * *

Clint Barton left the New York office at a brisk pace and pulled his shearling collar up to his ears. He navigated several blocks until he was certain he was alone. Huffing into the cold, he pulled out his cell phone, searched for a number listed in his contacts but never before dialled. His finger hovered nervously over the call button until he mentally gave himself a shove.

_"Hey Legolas, what's up? I didn't expect you'd ever call."_

"Stark. I need a favour. A big one. And you're the only person I know who can pull it off."

The wheels were now in motion and could not be stopped.

* * *

Natasha was waiting for her soup to microwave when a soft knock at her door surprised her. With an eyebrow raised, she walked out of her tidy kitchen, pausing by the hall table to pull her favourite little Grach pistol out. She didn't receive visitors in general, but it was New Year's Eve. It was unlikely that even a stray courier or a girl scout selling cookies would be knocking.

Silently, she checked the chamber of her gun, glanced out the peephole in the door, and couldn't suppress her laugh. Held up to the portal was a card with a simple arrow drawn on it. The fletching was purple, that pretty much ruled out any any attempt at deception. She put the gun away and pulled the door open with a grin…. and froze in shock at the sight before her.

He was James Bond, James Dean and Apollo all rolled into one. His dark blond hair had been tidily cut and he was freshly shaven. He was leaning casually against her door jamb, hand still outstretched with his card. He tried to give her a cavalier smirk, but she could see the nervousness bleeding through.

"Oh…. my…. God," she breathed, unable to form words beyond that as her heart pounded. It seemed to be enough, though. His confidence was restored and his eyes twinkled.

Clint was wearing a suit. Not just a suit, she mentally corrected herself, it was a tuxedo… cut absolutely perfectly to his compact, muscular frame, charcoal silk that shimmered very slightly and matched his stormy grey eyes. She stared, speechless, as he held out a large bouquet of white roses and ferns. He had to shake them several times before her attention re-engaged and she realized they were for her.

"Oh! Holy shit, Barton! I… I…err… _wow_. Uhhh. Thanks?" She took the roses and stared at them, stunned.

He laughed warmly, genuinely pleased with her reaction. "In Marrakesh, you said you wanted to see me in a tuxedo. I keep my promises."

"Yes, I can see that. Well. Come in!" she exclaimed, stepping back from the doorway.

He followed her, pulling the door closed behind him. "Sure, but just so you can put the roses in water. We're going out."

"We are?"

"Yes ma'am. It's New Year's Eve and I'm wearing a suit that costs more than any of the cars I've ever owned. You'd better take me out and show me off, lady, because this will never happen again."

"Jesus, Barton. I'm not exactly dressed for a night out. People will think I'm trying to mug you."

To Natasha's credit, she didn't so much as blush as he steadily looked her over. Wild, tousled red hair messily twisted into a bun, worn oversized Henley (possibly his) and yoga pants, ballet slippers and not a hint of make-up. He merely smiled. "It's very much an 'as you are' occasion. You look beautiful, as always."

She was about to protest when the microwave began to beep insistently from the kitchen. Her partner raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"It's New Year's Eve, you're home alone and you're reheating soup, right?" She looked guilty and he chuckled. "You have no excuse, Romanova. It's freezing out, grab a warm coat."

She started to move around her kitchen, pulling a large vase down from a cupboard and some scissors from a drawer. "Where are we going?"

"Anywhere you want, firecracker. Stark seems to have tables at every restaurant in the city and he said… I could…." Clint slowly trailed off as his partner's face turned predatory. She smoothly slid back over to him and his throat went dry.

Natasha slid both of her hands under the lapels of his tux and tugged gently at the silk. "_Anywhere_ I want?" she asked in a low voice that made the bottom of his stomach fall out. "What if I want to stay in?"

He crossed his arms, effectively nudging her hands from his chest. "Well!" he huffed in mock disapproval. "I'll have you know that I went to great pains to spruce up for you."

"Did you?" she breathed against his neck.

"Yes. A man measured me. _Measured me_, Tasha. I would like to stress that this involved a stranger all up in my inseam, while Stark watched from the sidelines, laughing his ass off."

Her lips twitched in mirth. "Oh, poor you."

"Yes," he pouted. "Pepper tried to protect my dignity and keep him out of it, but Stark hacked her calendar and showed up with the tailor. He brought _popcorn_."

Natasha had to choke back her laugh. "Oh, Clint! And you still went through with it? You really did this all for me?"

His gorgeous grey eyes twinkled despite his sulky frown. "Yes. And now you tell me, after all that, you don't even want to go out!"

His partner pushed her hands through his crossed arms and wrapped herself around his waist. She beamed up at him and his sulk began to crack.

"Sooooo…. you like the suit, then?" he asked with disarming charm.

"I like the suit," she whispered back to him. "I like it a lot. But we're not going out because no one else is allowed to see you in it. This… this is _all mine_. I'm not sharing, are you crazy?" The last remarks were growled into his neck.

"Aw, Hell, Nat," he protested with a deep rumble into her tousled red hair. "I'm trying to play it cool here, can't you tell?"

"Maybe I'm assessing how long you can keep that calm exterior up. This could be an official performance evaluation."

"What's the fail point? I bet I can hold out."

"Ten minutes," she murmured, dragging a perfectly manicured nail along the sternocleidomastoid muscle on the left side of his neck.

He pursed his lips, considering her reply. "Hmmm. Nope!" he exclaimed cheerfully and scooped her up against his chest.

She laughed richly and wrapped her thighs (killer thighs, he reminded himself… literally. Men had died between these thighs) around his waist and pressed her mouth against his. Her kiss was blistering, bringing a moan up from his depths. One of the things she loved most about Clint was that he was the only man she'd ever met who could handle very best she could dish out, and trade it right back until she was gasping. That's how she found herself now, heart pounding its way from her chest, breath hitching.

"This suit," Natasha muttered against his lips, "it's great, and all… but it needs to come _off_. I don't care how much it cost."

"You're insatiable!"

"Not true," she replied, still clinging to him as he carried her through her apartment and towards her bedroom. "There is one thing that satisfies me, and I happen to be looking at it right now."

"That's a strange coincidence, because it kinda seems like you're lookin' at me…."

"Barton?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up... and Happy New Year."


End file.
